Free-fall. That is a sensation I would gladly go the rest of my life without ever feeling again. Ever. Thank – well, not “God” as he certainly doesn’t exist. Thank fate, I guess? – that our impromptu skydiving session ended with a belly flop from the high dive rather than splatting against surface tension.
I’m not sure how grateful we should be for the people who found us. Sure, not drowning was nice, but being beaten up, cattle-prodded – another sensation I’d like to never feel again – and chased through the forests is not exactly a fair trade. They learned that it was quite literally bad luck to mess with me though, so there’s that.
Normally I wouldn’t have stepped foot on the same block as a KFC, but hunger is hunger and even the poor excuse for a “salad” that they had (which I SWEAR must’ve been rubbed with chicken anyways) was so wonderfully mundane I could’ve cried. No weird tastes, acidic sap, stinging nettles, shrieks of pain from semi-sentient vegetation….just lettuce. Tasteless, banal, crunchy iceberg lettuce.
It was heavenly.
Stepping into the nightclub after our “driver” took us where we needed to go wasn’t my normal scene, but I doubt there are mixology bars on this side of town. Good to know that my little recipe still tasted as good as ever, and I’ll be damned if those fae herbs didn’t actually work to my advantage. I guess not everything from that hellacious landscape is pure evil.
Also not pure evil: a real bed. Even one I have to share with Johnny’s flaming ass.